Song and Dance
by wanderingwidget
Summary: Wilson doesn’t know why, or he knows why but he doesn’t really understand it. Why House needs to surrender so completely. He doesn’t understand why, but he understands need.


Song and Dance

Rating: R

Pairing: H/W

Word Count: about 1850

Summary: They always do this in the dark. They fuck in the light, make love in the light, fight and make up and have great sex in the light. But this -always- in the dark. 

Warnings: men having sex (duh), bdsm themes, and possible ooc-ness due to lack of beta reader.

Author's Notes: It's dark, it's disturbing, and it's just plain weird. It came to me last night while I was failing to sleep, it survived eight hours of dreams about Pierce Brosnan, obviously it's got something going for it, even if only my own twisted subconscious.

Wilson doesn't know why, or he knows why but he doesn't really understand it. Why House needs to surrender so completely, why he needs to be held down, hurt, turned into the silent victim of his best friend. He doesn't understand why, but he understands need, so when that limping silhouette stops in his open doorway -head down and shoulders hunched- he doesn't make him ask. He just nods, finishes up Mr. Parson's file, and stands. As he's shrugging out of his white coat and into his jacket he thinks about how he only thinks of House 'limping' on nights like tonight.

The drive home is unbearable. House feels hot then cold by turns and couldn't make himself look at Wilson for a million dollars and an extra Vicodin. Nights like this, he knows, he needs that extra pill. Wilson's tense beside him, a coiled wire with nowhere to spring while they're crammed in the 'vette. House can feel his eyes moving over him like searchlights, soft hot spots running from his face down his neck, across his shoulders and waist. Or maybe that's just the sweat.

When they reach his apartment Wilson bolts out of the car. He needs to move, needs to get his nerves under control. Needs House to hurry up and unlock the door because even though the angle makes it impossible he can feel the neighbors' eyes on him, and they're not approving. He shifts his balance from one foot to the other until the door is finally opened, then he follows his friend inside. Behind them the door shuts like a promise, the click of the deadbolt their signatures. Wilson shakes his head at House's careful look. It's just his paranoia, nothing serious.

A shrug tells Wilson it doesn't matter, his eyes still somewhere between the ground and his chin, he never can make himself meet his eyes on these nights. House shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over the couch, heading back to the bedroom. Wilson's jacket follows his, footsteps an offbeat echo to his one one-two. He leaves the lights off.

They always do this in the dark. They fuck in the light, make love in the light, fight and make up and have great sex in the light. But this -always- in the dark. Wilson wonders what that says about their psyches, probably that they both need therapy, or something. The curve of House's neck is illuminated by the streetlight coming through the blinds, perfect and pale and before he forms the thought he's got him pressed face first to the bedroom wall -gentle, gentle- mouth working the join between his shoulder and his neck. House shudders.

It happens like this, every muscle loosening until he's practically laying on the wall and Wilson's body the only thing holding him up. The cane clatters out of his hand and the sound jolts him, pulls him out of that hazy space where he can watch what's happening. Detached, uninvolved, safe. Wilson shifts behind him, tilts his head the other way and latches on to the opposite side of his neck.

Carefully, always carefully. House shudders again, loosening beneath him and Wilson closes his eyes, resists the urge to kiss the bite away. Has anyone else seen him like this, he wonders as he guides House the two steps from wall to bed, has anyone else ever seen him this - no, not vulnerable, but something. Jealousy burns through him as he watches House fumble his clothes off in the dark, shrugs out of his own. He tells himself it's him feeling protective, not jealous, and follows him down onto the bed.

Skin meets skin and grounds him in the moment, pulls him out of the land of the pseudo high and plants him in his bed with Wilson pressed against him, careful of his leg but not avoiding it. Stacy couldn't look at it, after, they never turned the lights on in the bedroom once he came home. Maybe that's why, he thinks distantly, dull ache threading through his heart.

It's that hitch in his breathing he was waiting for, pressed over him like some sort of Bacchanalian blanket. And the mental image of House participating in an orgy is enough to get him from halfway there to hard, he pulls back and up, staring down at the pale ghost laid out before him, the light falls across his skin between lines of shadow, leaving his face dark and his ribs in high relief. It's the only time, other than a really intense orgasm, that House shuts up in bed. The hunger builds and he clenches and unclenches his hands. Control. Control, it's about control, hurt him as much as he wants but no more. Don't damage him, don't break him, don't take what's given and crush him with it. He knows that in this state House wont deny him anything, what he doesn't know is if that's a choice or a compulsion. Wilson wonders if this is what it feels like to be God. It's terrifying. It's exhilarating.

The first thrust sings pain through his body like lightning playing the piano. The second follows, third, fourth. Pounding out the other, less real pains and House loses himself as Wilson finds his rhythm, eyes open but unseeing, trusting him to know when to stop when House doesn't know himself.

Holding himself up on one shaking arm, angling away from the leg though he knows it's no use. Even the gentlest love making causes pain there. But that's not his pain, not his fault, his pain is in every hitched breath passing House's lips. Every thrust deep and deeper. Once he'd tried to give pleasure with the pain, tried to hit the right angle with the right thrusts. The results had been unexpected. They never talked about it, but he never tried it again. These dark nights are the toll for all of the others, he knows, the price he has to pay to have House. The part that's getting to him is that he's not sure if he's doing it for House or himself anymore.

Maybe it's selfish. Scratch that, it's definitely selfish. But they're being selfish together so, he supposes, that makes it okay. Or not okay, but not totally selfish. Maybe. It's strange how the pain focuses him, even in the midst of this haze of his, buried inside himself like a kid hiding under the covers. Wilson needs this, needs to be in control, needs to be able to strike back. And if he told him any of this he'd deny it, vehemently, demand to know why he'd need to strike back at House. Which is why he doesn't tell him, because then he'd have to answer and he doesn't think Wilson wants to hear that. The pain building in his body pushes him deeper, further away from himself, further away from Wilson, past thoughts and into feelings and it's there, here, that it all hits him like a sucker punch in slow motion.

And House's eyes snap closed, a low keening sound trapped in his throat. It's that sound that makes Wilson lose his rhythm, that turns a careful beat into a cacophony, and House is shaking beneath him, silent sobs traveling the path of least resistance and Wilson is shaking to. When he comes it's with a groan, an animal sound pulled from an animal's throat at the end of an animalistic act, if it'd been formed as a coherent thought it would have given him a headache. He collapses, missing the leg by sheer dumb luck, the film of hot sweat on his skin binding to the film of cold sweat on House's. They're breathing together, and Wilson doesn't know who's following who.

When it stops it leaves him cold and alone, drifting and not quite sure if he's real or just a dream. Thoughts form, somewhere over a horizon he can't see, distant and alien and blissfully quiet.

Afterwards Wilson is too tired to feel guilty, almost too tired to feel concern. He goes through mechanical motions, cleaning them both and checking for blood. There isn't any, and that's a small favor, but even so he frowns as he pulls the covers over the both of them. House is still cool to the touch, still gone somewhere he can't follow, and this is perhaps the strangest part of their entire dance. The part where he spoons up behind him, runs his fingers through House's hair because that seems to bring him back quicker and -even if this is the point of it all- Wilson doesn't like how empty the other man feels. Pressed this close he can feel him slowly coming back, and when it starts he breaths a sigh he didn't notice he was holding.

The dull throb of pain tells him more than anything else that, yes, he's real again. He can feel Wilson's heart beating against his back, still too fast, and can feel his heartbeat matching it. Warmth seems to pour in all at once, along with the sensation of being petted. He shifts, just a little, and Wilson's arm tightens over his hip. Picky, but he makes himself lie still, breathing through the pain and promising his body that it'll get two pills very soon, it's just that Wilson needs this whole post coital snuggle fest and he doesn't really feel like interrupting at the moment. Right.

Wilson makes him lie still until he's sure that he's all the way back. He's not sure why he does it, but suspects that it has something to do with the irrational fear that he'll lose some part of House that he'll never be able to find again. So he keeps stroking until House isn't shivering against him anymore, until their heartbeats aren't synched up anymore and he can feel the tension building in his body.

Finally, Wilson relinquishes his grip and House rolls over with a grunt, swiping the pill bottle off of his nightstand and tipping two into his mouth. Mindful of the eyes on him he swallows, even though he really wants to chew, it's easier to deal with a few more minutes of pain than that look in Wilson's eyes for days. Besides, he figures, he can always pop another one after Wilson goes to sleep.

When House rolls back around to face him his eyes are clear, painted Technicolor by a strip of light and, Wilson knows, his own face is in shadow. Those eyes watch him for a moment, considering, before he rolls them and rolls onto his back. Wilson follows suit and stares at the pattern of stripes painted across the ceiling. Their shoulders are almost not quite touching and he wonders what to make of that, that a fully conscious and together House can't stand to be touched, even after everything they've done. Parents probably took his teddy away when he was three, he muses. But this is okay too, because this is the way it is with House, you just had to take him how he was.

Greg snorted, sensing deep and possibly angst ridden thoughts going on next to him. But hey, that's just what you got for being in a relationship with James Wilson. 

END 


End file.
